


The City  by the Lake

by ignipes



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-18
Updated: 2008-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've got twenty years of shared memories. 'Remember when' covers a lot of ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The City  by the Lake

There's a zombie movie marathon on and Spencer doesn't hear the front door open. He doesn't know anybody's come in until the screen goes dark between scenes and he catches sight of somebody looming over him in the reflection.

He jumps about six inches off the sofa and twists around. "Fuck! What the--oh, hey. I thought you were a zombie."

Ryan is standing behind the couch, both hands resting on the back. "My air conditioner is broken," he says.

It's mid-July and the heat is diabolical. A few hours earlier the evening news was buzzing with the story of a woman who left her toddler in the car at the supermarket, and some teenagers who broke the windows of the car to get the kid out, then used the same tire iron they used to smash to the windows to smash the woman's head when she came out of the store. There were interviews with hysterical witnesses, footage of milk splashed on asphalt and broken eggs drying in the sun. Spencer changed the channel before the report was finished. Zombie apocalypses are less depressing than Las Vegas in the summer.

He draws his legs up to make room on the couch. "When you say 'broken', do you mean you forgot to pay your utilities again?"

"Oh. I don't know," Ryan says, frowning slightly. He stares down at the empty sofa cushion but doesn't move around to sit. "I didn't notice."

"You didn't notice if your lights were working."

Ryan shrugs, a quick jerk of one shoulder, and says, "It was still light when I left. I've been kinda, you know." He waves one hand vaguely; his watch is loose, sliding along his wrist. "Wandering. Just, around."

For the first time Spencer notices the fine sheen of sweat on Ryan's flushed skin, the damp patches on his t-shirt, the way his hair is plastered around his face. Spencer drops his feet to the floor and stands up. "It's a hundred and ten in the shade and you decide to take a walk?"

Another quick half-shrug, this one accompanied by a self-deprecating quirk of a smile. "My car doesn't have any gas in it."

"I don't know why we even let you out in public by yourself." Spencer walks around the back of the couch and shoves Ryan, not roughly, but with intent. "Move, dumbass. If you pass out from dehydration I'm going to tell everyone you're a Victorian lady and they should send you smelling salts for your birthday." Ryan lets himself be shoved, doesn't even protest when Spencer steers him onto the couch and says, "Now, stay. Good boy."

Spencer goes into the kitchen and fills a tall glass with water, comes back and holds it in front of Ryan's face until Ryan takes it. "I wanted to come over," Ryan says, like that's an explanation for anything.

"You could have called for a ride. Or does your phone not work either?"

"I called Brendon. He's in Pahrump."

"Why is Brendon in Pahrump?" Spencer doesn't really expect an answer. Brendon gets restless when they're on a break, stir-crazy in a way none of the rest of them do, and it often manifests itself in spur-of-the-moment road trips to places nobody in their right mind would ever visit on purpose. "You could have called _me_ , genius."

"Yeah." Ryan sips his water. "I felt like walking."

"Right, of course. Heat stroke is fun for the whole family." Spencer collapses on the couch again, feels the remote poking into his leg and squirms around to retrieve it. On the screen the stereotypically tough military guy is shouting for the other survivors to run while he holds off the ravenous undead hordes, and it's obviously only a matter of minutes before something eats his head. "I can't believe you were walking around outside in this heat," Spencer says.

"Yeah."

Spencer glances over. Ryan has both hands wrapped around his glass, and he's staring down at it, smiling slightly like he's sharing a secret joke. "What?"

"Nothing."

"It's not actually going to make you less dehydrated if you don't drink it."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just, you know. You're fussing."

"Only because you're too--oh, whatever." Annoyed, Spencer turns abruptly to face the television again. "Never mind."

"Too what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Too what?"

" _Nothing_. Jesus."

"Fine, whatever," Ryan huffs. The good humor is gone from his voice, and Spencer doesn't have to look to know that he's not smiling anymore. "I'll drink the fucking water, okay? I mean, you went to all that trouble."

"What the fuck, Ry--"

"Watch, I'm drinking it." Ryan takes a big gulp, chokes when he tries to swallow and ends up coughing violently. Spencer resists the urge to reach over and pat him on the back, to risk Ryan jerking away from his touch. When Ryan is red-faced but breathing normally again, he says hoarsely, "Best water I've ever had."

"Bite me."

"My house is empty." Ryan's voice is quiet, drained.

Spencer opens his mouth, closes it. He's used to Ryan's mercurial changes in mood, the amusement that slides into anger, anger that fades to melancholy, but he doesn't know where this is coming from. He taps the remote idly on his knee, sets it aside but doesn't turn toward Ryan. "Yeah," he says, and carefully, as much a test as an observation: "You don't spend much time there anymore."

He feels Ryan slant a questioning glance his way. Spencer shrugs, turns his head slightly to meet Ryan's eyes. Ryan is surprised, like he didn't know until now that Spencer has noticed.

"It's not..." Ryan slumps down in the couch, his long legs stretched before him. He bites the edge of his glass for a second; his teeth tap softly on the rim. "I don't like echoes."

Spencer has spent most of his life translating Ryan Ross; this is a language he understands. It's strange, he thinks, watching Ryan's fingers curl around the glass. It's strange how the years sprawl so much longer than the calendar shows. They bought their houses at the same time, moved in at the same time, called the same decorator, spent so much time going back and forth their DVD collections were inextricable mingled and their dogs forever confused about which territory to defend. They bought their houses at the same time, and everything was girlfriends and plans, changes and tomorrows. They counted rooms with thought not only to who would crash on the floor when they were in town but who might need a bed in the future, in the nebulous _someday, maybe_ that's always dancing around the edge of the buses and highways, hotels and stages.

"I hate it when my mom is right," Spencer says.

"What?" Ryan looks up, confused. "Your mom?"

"She said... she said something, once. About, you know, all this." Spencer gestures around the room. Spencer's mother had said, _I'm proud of you, honey, but I worry that you're trying to grow up too fast._ And he'd rolled his eyes, given her a hug, told her not to worry, silently laughing at the idea that his mom of all people could call living the rock star life of parties and shows and constant motion and general insanity _growing up_. Spencer had been pretty sure what they were doing was about as far from growing up as possible.

"What did she say?"

Spencer brushes his hair back from his face. "Nothing important. It was just... nothing."

He doesn't want to admit to anyone, not even Ryan, that he's wallowing in a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of twenty-five. He looks around at the matching furniture and framed photographs, the zombie gorefest on the television and acoustic guitar leaning in the corner. Brendon's, not Ryan's, it's been in Spencer's living room for months, because Spencer's is the house they all end up when they need a place to go. It's where Jon crashes when he's in town, bringing with him long, lazy nights of smoke and laughter. It's where Brendon comes to blow off steam after he fights with his parents, bringing with him the bitter temper and sharp edges so few people ever see.

And apparently it's where Ryan stops when he's tired of wandering, or delirious from heat stroke. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Spencer asks, "Are you okay?"

Ryan's expression shifts subtly, and he moves, quick and sharp, like he's going to sit up but changes his mind. "Do you want me to leave? I can leave. It's cooler now, I can--"

"What?" Spencer feels his eyes widen, and he hopes he looks as baffled as he feels. "What, no, the hell--I didn't say that. What's going on?"

Ryan doesn't say anything. He drains his glass, leans over to set it on the floor, and immediately seems to regret it, playing with the edge of t-shirt and twisting his fingers together.

"Ryan?"

"Remember when we--"

They've got twenty years of shared memories. _Remember when_ covers a lot of ground. Spencer watches Ryan and waits.

"Remember that night we drove out to the beach--well, Lake Mead, not really a beach--and I, I mean, I drove, because you couldn't, it was really late and there were coyotes--"

"I remember," Spencer says quietly.

Ryan nods, barely a motion at all. His eyes are wide, too bright.

Spencer remembers. Ryan was sixteen and he knew how to drive, but he didn't have his license yet; his father kept promising to take him to the DMV and flaking out at the last minute. When he called Spencer and said, "Let's go somewhere," Spencer didn't hesitate, didn't ask where or how or why, just told his parents he was staying at Ryan's and headed over on his bike. Ryan's father was out but his car was still parked outside, and Ryan came out the front door twirling the keys on his finger. Spencer wheeled his bike into the garage and asked, "Where're we going?"

Ryan said, "It's so fucking stupid that there's a giant lake in the middle of the desert."

And Spencer replied, "Don't get pulled over. That would totally suck."

They drove until the city lights dropped away, the traffic thinned and the roads darkened. Ryan drove like he knew where he was going, one hand on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio non-stop. Spencer wasn't fooled. He was fifteen and not terribly enlightened, but if there was one thing he knew it was Ryan, and Ryan at sixteen was equal parts bravado and fear, armor wrapped around the kid Spencer had always known, the friend who still laughed at Spencer's lamest jokes and still slept in Spencer's twin bed as though there was as much room as there had been when they were little.

It wasn't much of a beach at all, where they ended up. There was a strip of gravel carved with tire tracks and faded signs of regulations for camping and boating. The moon was bright, glowing on every pale stone surface, and the air felt cool, damp. Their shoes crunching on the ground, the soft noises of the car's engine cooling, water lapping at the shore, there were no other sounds, nobody else nearby. They walked down to the water and sat side by side, talked about school and music, everything and nothing.

They fell silent for a while, staring at the dark water and bright stars, and Spencer was almost expecting when Ryan spat out, suddenly and angrily, "I wish he would--I wish he would just fucking _not_ , I don't know what the fuck, I don't fucking _care_ , I don't--" He bit off the words jaggedly, like they burned his tongue.

Spencer said softly, "Something happen, Ry?"

"He used to be fun," Ryan said. The anger was gone, the sadness heavy in his voice. "He used--we used to have fun. One summer, he had this boat, borrowed it or something, and we went out and--and it was good, you know? It was fun. It wasn't--it was good." Ryan dug his heels into the ground, kicked a trough in the gravel. He reached for a handful of stones, and his fingers brushed against Spencer's leg. He began tossing the rocks into the water one by one. "People always--everybody always, they change. Even when they--they leave, they go away, even when they're still fucking there--and it doesn't, it's like they were never, never the way they were."

Ryan's voice was as flat as ever, but Spencer could hear how tired he was, how brittle and tightly wound, and he didn't know what to say.

"Spencer." Ryan threw the rest of the rocks into the water and brushed his hand on his jeans. He twisted around and grabbed Spencer's wrist. "Spencer, will you--"

Startled, Spencer started to pull his hand away, but stopped. "What?"

"Will you--you have to promise me. You have to, you're the only one--everybody else changes and leaves and I don't--you're just, you have to promise."

Ryan was so close his breath was warm on Spencer's cheek. Spencer inhaled nervously. "What?"

"You have to tell me if I--I don't want, I can't be that, I don't want to--you have to tell me if I start, you know, start not being me, start changing wrong, or leaving or acting--wrong."

"Um." Spencer's wrist was starting to hurt--Ryan had a grip like a fucking vise--and he had the sudden urge to laugh, a tickle building in his chest, but he swallowed it down. "Does, um, does right now count?"

For a second Ryan didn't say anything at all, and Spencer thought he was going to be pissed, scramble to his feet and storm away in a tantrum, maybe even get in the car and kick up gravel as he drove away before coming back ten, fifteen minutes later, silent and unapologetic.

But Ryan--he _laughed_. He fucking laughed, threw his head back and barked out like the sound was surprised from him, and he let go of Spencer's wrist to smack him lightly on the arm.

Spencer missed the touch on his hand, but he smiled. "You're a fucking lunatic," he said.

"Takes one to know one," Ryan countered. He leaned closer, and in the moonlight the wisps of his hair cast weird shadows on his face. "Maybe it's contagious. Maybe hanging out with me has ruined you for--you hear that?" Ryan whipped his head around, and a second later Spencer heard it too: coyotes, a few of them, yipping and barking somewhere close. Ryan scanned the nearby hills as though he could see them in the dark. "I wonder where they are? They sound like they're right there."

"Yeah," Spencer breathed, barely a word. "They sound pretty close." He touched Ryan's arm, and Ryan looked at him in question. "I--it's okay. I mean, I promise."

"What--oh. Oh. It's not--it's no big deal," Ryan said, too quickly, like he'd already moved on. "I was just being stupid, don't--don't worry about it."

He looked away again, but Spencer could see that he was still smiling. He felt a pang of regret, mingled with something like fear. Ryan was forever moving on, Spencer forever catching up, and someday, he knew, someday, maybe Ryan would be so far ahead he would forget to wait.

Spencer hasn't thought about that night in years, but he remembers.

"Yeah." He closes his eyes briefly. "I--yeah. I do. I remember."

"You said--it was stupid of me, but you said--"

"What's going on, Ryan?" Spencer opens his eyes again and changes his position, hitching one leg onto the couch so he can look at Ryan fully. "Are you thinking of doing something stupid?"

Ryan toys with the edge of his t-shirt, pokes his finger into a tiny hole and rips it larger. "I do stupid shit all the time. You always forgive me."

"I don't--" Spencer frowns. "No, I don't." Ryan's head snaps up, and he looks so horrified Spencer rushes to explain, "No, no, I mean--I don't, what the hell, I don't _forgive_ you. You don't need--what the fuck do you do that requires _forgiveness_?"

"Put up with me, then," Ryan says, looking down again. "I don't know why you put up with me."

"It's called friendship, asshole, and it works both ways."

"I'm a much more high maintenance friend than you are," Ryan says matter-of-factly.

Spencer can't argue with that. "I like doing maintenance."

"Yeah." Ryan doesn't look up, but Spencer can see just enough of his face to recognize the tiny, crooked smile. "I'm kind of counting on that."

"What are you talking about?"

"You--I made you promise, you remember that, I know you do, you always remember the important things, but that wasn't--I thought if you promised that, you would always have to be--it wasn't what I wanted to make you promise."

"You didn't make me do anything," Spencer says, "and I still have no fucking idea what's going on here."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's--yeah." Ryan raises his head then, and he moves forward a little bit, sliding across the sofa awkwardly. "Don't run away, okay?"

"Don't--"

Ryan puts one hand on Spencer's arm, his fingers weirdly cold, and whispers, "Please don't run away."

And he leans forward and kisses Spencer.

Spencer freezes instantly. Just--just _stops_ , forgets to breathe, he's pretty sure his heart stops for a second there, and that's obviously the wrong thing to do because Ryan pulls away a little. Spencer makes a noise of protest. He's trying to say _no_ , trying to say _wait_ , but all he manages is a startled whine. One of his arms is trapped against the cushion, and he works it free, wraps it around the back of Ryan's neck because pulling away, that's not good, that's definitely not the way to go. Ryan smiles against his lips, and Spencer can feel him laughing silently, the bastard.

Ryan's hand is brushing along his neck, his jaw, the touch tentative, questioning. His lips are chapped and he smells like sweat, he kisses the corner of Spencer's mouth and rests his forehead against Spencer's, asks, "Okay?"

Spencer puts his hand on Ryan's waist, on bare, warm skin where his t-shirt is riding up, and takes a few breaths before answering. "This is why you spent hours wandering around in the sun? You really are a freak."

Ryan laughs again and slumps against Spencer, always surprisingly heavy for someone so skinny, but Spencer holds him up. "Most of that time was walking up and down your street trying to get up the nerve to come in," he admits sheepishly. "You never look out your window, but your neighbors do. I thought they were going to call the cops."

"They're used to seeing scruffy weirdos lurking around my house."

"You bring all the vagabonds to the yard."

"Hey, we've all got our talents."

Ryan pushed back a little to look at Spencer. "This is--I mean, you're not, um, not running away, you promised to tell me if I'm doing anything wrong, so it's--"

"It's good," Spencer says. "It's... yeah. Good."

And it's the great irony of their lives, he thinks, that they both spent so much time afraid of being left behind they never noticed the other was always, always waiting. Or maybe they noticed, they were just too dense to figure out what it meant, but he's not going to think about it now, not with Ryan watching him with eyes that are more happy than worried, the skin of Ryan's back soft under his fingers and close, so close, but still too far away.

"It's about time," he says finally, and Ryan rolls his eyes, starts to say something, but Spencer cuts him off with a kiss. "God, we're idiots," he mutters. But he isn't going to think about that either, not right now.


End file.
